“Nothing to complain of, sir. There’s never very much to do of a morning.”
“That will do, Mr. Wilson. I shall be happy to give you an opinion upon the
subject in the course of a day or two. To-day is Saturday, and I hope that by
Monday we may come to a conclusion.”
“Well, Watson,” said Holmes when our visitor had left us, “what do you make
of it all?”
“I make nothing of it,” I answered frankly. “It is a most mysterious business.”
“As a rule,” said Holmes, “the more bizarre a thing is the less mysterious it
proves to be. It is your commonplace, featureless crimes which are really
puzzling, just as a commonplace face is the most difficult to identify. But I must
be prompt over this matter.”
“What are you going to do, then?” I asked.
“To smoke,” he answered. “It is quite a three pipe problem, and I beg that you
won’t speak to me for fifty minutes.” He curled himself up in his chair, with his
thin knees drawn up to his hawk-like nose, and there he sat with his eyes closed
and his black clay pipe thrusting out like the bill of some strange bird. I had
come to the conclusion that he had dropped asleep, and indeed was nodding
myself, when he suddenly sprang out of his chair with the gesture of a man who
has made up his mind and put his pipe down upon the mantelpiece.
“Sarasate plays at the St. James’s Hall this afternoon,” he remarked. “What do
you think, Watson? Could your patients spare you for a few hours?”
“I have nothing to do to-day. My practice is never very absorbing.”
“Then put on your hat and come. I am going through the City first, and we can
have some lunch on the way. I observe that there is a good deal of German
music on the programme, which is rather more to my taste than Italian or French.
It is introspective, and I want to introspect. Come along!”
We travelled by the Underground as far as Aldersgate; and a short walk took
us to Saxe-Coburg Square, the scene of the singular story which we had listened
to in the morning. It was a poky, little, shabby-genteel place, where four lines of
dingy two-storied brick houses looked out into a small railed-in enclosure, where
a lawn of weedy grass and a few clumps of faded laurel bushes made a hard fight
against a smoke-laden and uncongenial atmosphere. Three gilt balls and a brown
board with “JABEZ WILSON” in white letters, upon a corner house, announced
the place where our red-headed client carried on his business. Sherlock Holmes
stopped in front of it with his head on one side and looked it all over, with his
eyes shining brightly between puckered lids. Then he walked slowly up the